I’ve been starting my workdays at 10 a.m. in the hopes of getting some extra sleep, but I still wake up completely exhausted. Nonetheless, I managed to get my stuff together and make it to The Clubhouse right on time this morning. I also did a lot of work today. Probably more than I’ve done in the past two weeks combined, which was annoying because I really needed to get some writing done.

I’m so fucking hungry all the time. I literally cannot stop eating. I wonder if my appetite works in a cycle or something? Perhaps I should look into measuring it or marking it on a calendar. There are some weeks when I’m totally fine. I don’t find myself that hungry, and can actually tuck a shirt into my pants without a huge bulge at my waistline. Then there are other weeks, like this one, when I am a bottomless pit. I am hungry all the time. From the moment I wake up, to the moment I go to bed.

What’s different this time around with my hunger is that I’m giving into it. I don’t care anymore. I want to eat, because I’m depressed. Food is making me feel better. At the same time, I know this isn’t going to end well. I need to lock myself in the gym and get back on track. I look pregnant again. It’s almost 1:30 a.m. right now. I have been feasting all night, yet I’m still hungry. What the fuck is going on? Honestly, at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if I were pregnant. Just add it to the list. Note to self: get tubes tied.

Work progressed without any issues. Every time I saw Stella, I would literally run away in the other direction – regardless of whether or not she saw me. Stella came into my office at one point today. With a big, toothy grin, she smiled and asked me how I was doing in front of Big Bird. Except, she wasn’t “smiling.” Stella was showing her fangs. The woman wants to fucking kill me. Other than Stella, the day was easy enough. I still managed to maintain a decent mixture of work and social media, which is a personal goal of mine while on the clock.

I’m still unsure as to how I feel about keeping Grindr and Tinder on my phone after re-downloading them in New York City. I really don’t have time to be chatting with boys or going on dates, but there seems to be this influx of new men on the apps. They’re keeping things interesting. It’s like the apps have reset themselves. I even swiped past RX.

By the way, that’s a whole fucking thing I’m not even going to discuss anymore. Yeah, yeah, yeah. You say that now. Seriously, though. What a fucking asshole. I get angry that RX brings out this much negative energy in me. From now on, I should really just cut him out. It’s clear that RX was totally just humoring me earlier this month. If there were a real desire to have any sort of relationship with me, RX would have made an effort by now. There’s been nothing. So, fuck that. I want to sleep with RX’s friend just to piss him off. Actually, scratch that. RX’s friend knows way too many gays in the city. The guy is from London, Ontario, after all. We all know what those gays are like. Incestuous, at best.

My workday wrapped up. I spent the last hour or so continuing to write my retelling of what happened on Sunday. The Fire Island journal entry is so fucking long that it has taken me three days to write. In the interest of getting my writing done, I decided that I would skip the gym tonight.

After work, I walked home. Following a huge dinner involving about six different courses, an episode of Chelsea, and a 30-minute nap, I started writing the remainder of that Sunday journal entry around 8:30 p.m.

It’s now 1:30 a.m., and I’m writing this one. That’s how fucking long it took. The damn Fire Island story is over 9,000 words. It’s a fucking beast, but it’s done. I needed to get that off my chest. After focusing on that journal entry for the better part of the night, I feel totally drained. I am so happy I was able to document that experience, though. I don’t like skipping the gym, but knowing there’s an unfinished journal left to write stresses me out. As more time passes, my emotions begin to change. Apart from their ever-growing length and finding the time to write them, that’s the biggest problem with these journal entries. They have to be written in the moment. Even with this one, I am punching it out as fast as possible. I need to get to bed, but I also want my writing to be as open, honest, and candid as possible.

I feel completely different now than I did on Sunday. I feel like a new person. I am also experiencing a lot less depression and anxiety than I was a few days ago. While that may be great for my overall mental health, writing a journal after the events have passed and my emotions have changed dilutes the entry. I can remember how I felt on any given day, but sometimes words and emotions are conveyed differently depending on when you’re writing the journal itself.

Walking home from work, I was in a pretty good mood. As I approached the Witch Cave, I thought more and more about how I still want to move to California and write. I feel like I now have this idea in my head, and it’s going to be a hard one to shake. It’s like in Pixar’s Inside Out when the idea ball gets stuck in the girl’s control panel. That’s what I imagine my brain looks like right now. I want to watch that movie, actually. If only I had the time.

Anyway, I’m seriously considering the possibility of moving to California this winter, in an attempt to avoid the bleakosity that is my seasonal depression. I would be able to write all day, every day. Not only that, but the time between now and when I would drive out west would give me time to save money and wrap things up in Toronto. I love my apartment, I really do. When I come back to the Witch Cave after a few days away, I’m always reminded of how much I like it. At the same time, I also want to move. I hate the area I live in, and I am very interested in switching things up. So, maybe I should?

Work is a joke. As of this afternoon, Big Bird seems to have taken a less courageous approach in requesting my time off for Vegas and has backtracked on “going up to bat” for me – as if I even understand that football reference. Regardless, the reality is that The Clubhouse either gives me the time off, or they fire me. Your choice. Either way, I am going to Las Vegas and I am seeing Mariah Carey.

I don’t need this job. That’s the fucking truth of it all. Give me three days a week in the office. That’s fine. If anything, that’s great! I can still earn some income while being able to focus on my writing and other possible career options. I hate The Clubhouse with all of my heart. I think about leaving every single day. I don’t want to spend another minute in that fly-infested hellhole. I swiped some more toilet paper and Kleenex from the bathroom as I left today. Fuck y’all.

So, that’s where I’m at now. I’m happy to have finished my Fire Island journal entry, and hopefully I can move forward with other things now. It’s late as all hell, and I have to go to bed. I also have to masturbate and rid myself of some of this stress.

Sebastian messaged me today – okay, that was a weird segue – and he’s still in search of a job and apartment. Sebastian asked if he could spend a week at my place so that he could focus on things, and I said it would be fine. I mean, why not? Right? The guy is in need of help, and I have a couch. So, whatever. If it means that much to him, go for it. I’m happy to help. I’ll just get an extra key made, as I don’t want to be arranging schedules and shit like that. Come and go as you please. Just don’t piss on the toilet seat, get water on the bathroom floor, or walk in the place with your shoes on. Those are my rules.

Oh! On another tangent, get this. A message came through to my Tinder from a guy named Austin, whom I had briefly talked to on the first night of my New York City trip.

Austin: “OMG just realized you’re the guy who left his bag at our house.”

Are you fucking kidding me? I mean, what are the odds that I had been talking to this guy a mere two days before everything that transpired on Fire Island?

We ended up exchanging a few more messages. Austin hit on me, said he wished we could have hung out, that he loved my outfit on Fire Island, and blah, blah, blah. Oh, yeah. Sure. That would have been a real good look for me on Sunday. Sleep with the guy who had my bag. Imagine? That would’ve been quite the ending to my Wizard of FIP story. What an odd coincidence. Come to think of it, my whole life seems to be a series of odd encounters and coincidences.

Okay. I need to go to bed. This is ridiculous. Good luck at the front desk tomorrow. You’re gonna need it, kid.

Goodnight xo

P.S. – I just looked in the mirror, and was reminded of my teeth yet again. I don’t think I will ever get over what happened to them. I hate my smile. This is what I am stuck with for the rest of my life.

@yalittlenasty Instagram post from tonight.